“I am convinced only that she has an excellent temper,” said Lady Littleton. “I hope you do not think a good temper is incompatible with a heart or a soul.”
“I will tell you what I think, and what I am sure of,” cried Mrs. Somers, raising her voice; “that Mlle. de Coulanges will be a constant cause of dispute and uneasiness between you and me, Lady Littleton—I foresee the end of this. As a return for all I have done for her and her mother, she will rob me of the affections of one whom I love and esteem, respect and admire—as she well knows—above all other human beings. She will rob me of the affections of one who has been my friend, my best, my only constant friend, for twenty years!—Oh! why am I doomed eternally to be the victim of ingratitude?”
In spite of Lady Littleton’s efforts to stop and calm her, Mrs. Somers burst out of the room in an agony of passion. She ran up a back staircase which led to her dressing-room, but suddenly stopped when she came to the landing-place, for she found Emilie watering her plants.
“Look, dear Mrs. Somers, this hydrangia is just going to blow; though I was so careless as to forget to water it yesterday.”
“I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges, that you will not trouble yourself,” said Mrs. Somers, haughtily. “Surely there are servants enough in this house whose business it is to remember these things.”
“Yes,” said Emilie, “it is their business, but it is my pleasure. You must not, indeed you must not, take my watering-pot from me!”
“Pardon me, I must, mademoiselle—you are very condescending and polite, and I am very blunt and rude, or whatever you please to think me. But the fact is, that I am not to be flattered by what the French call des petites attentions: they are suited to little minds, but not to me. You will never know my character, Mlle. de Coulanges—I am not to be pleased by such means.”
“Teach me then better means, my dear friend, and do not bid me despair of ever pleasing you,” said Emilie, throwing her arms round Mrs. Somers to detain her.
“Excuse me—I am an Englishwoman, and do not love embrassades, which mean nothing,” said Mrs. Somers, struggling to disengage herself; and she rushed suddenly forward, without perceiving that Emilie’s foot was entangled in her train. Emilie was thrown from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Mrs. Somers screamed—Lady Littleton came out of her room.
“She is dead!—I have killed her!”—cried Mrs. Somers. Lady Littleton raised Emilie from the ground—she was quite stunned by the violence of the fall.